


Welcome Home

by just_the_fics_maam



Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-10
Updated: 2019-01-10
Packaged: 2019-10-07 15:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17368166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_the_fics_maam/pseuds/just_the_fics_maam
Summary: Sometimes it's nice to be able to bring comfort to someone you love.(One-Shot)





	Welcome Home

It’s late. And cold. And damp. But inside, where you are, it is warm and dry, although perhaps a little lonely.

You sigh and rest your head back on the pillows. It’s been a challenging few weeks, but you knew it would be. He’s been busy, invigorated and exhausted at the same time. Long hours on the stage. Even longer hours at the stage door.

Still, it’s been fun to watch. You love to peek when he doesn’t know you’re looking, and watch the animation flicker on his features. That thing, that daily, nightly, hourly contract with the audience, that interchange of energy – that is what makes him burn like a flame. That is why he was born, and when he leaps into it with both feet, it’s more than just attractive. It sounds so terrible – so clichéd and lovesick – but it’s inspirational. It pushes you onward with your own projects, with your own trajectory, which now seems, perhaps, to be connected with his.

You roll to the side, looking up at the sky through the slanting windows. A bit of cloud is all, deep darkness. No stars to see tonight, faint as they ever are so close to the glowing city. You reach your hand across the smooth fitted sheet, rubbing a slow, wide circle over his side of the bed. You’ve often fallen asleep with it empty and woken up the same way, then padded down the stairs to see him passed out on the couch, clutching a pillow, a teacup half-empty beside him.

In his sleep he looks so much like a little boy, tired from a long day of play. You love the boyish in him, that spark of mischief and joy that is still undimmed, although now he is certainly a man.

You hear him thump into the front hallway below. You stand, wrapping your thin robe around you, and run down.

“Darling,” he says sleepily when he sees you. You reach him and wrap your arms tight, then stand back, touching his curls with your fingers. Tiny droplets of water sit on the whorls of his hair, like glitter.

“Rain?” you say.

He nods. “Just the slightest drizzle. Like a mist.” He holds your waist and kisses your forehead. You reach up and knead his shoulders lightly. “Oh, god,” he says. “That’s… lovely. Oh, yes.” He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back and you turn him around, standing behind him and squeezing along the wide, tight shoulder blades.

“Goodness, babe,” you say, sliding the black cardigan down and gripping his warm white t-shirt in your palms as you slowly massage. “You’re worn out, aren’t you?”

“Mmm hmm,” he says, looking down.

“Feeling better, though?”

He nods. “Mostly over the cold,” he says. “Just a little cough sometimes.”

“That’s good.”

He leans into your ministrations even more and you have to part your legs and brace them against his leaning weight.

“Why don’t you come lay down? I’ll give you the full treatment,” you say, patting his shoulders.

“Mmm, that would be lovely,” he says. “Just a moment.” He walks to the counter and plugs in the kettle. You lean on the doorframe and watch him, even his slightest movements endearing him to you. “What are you looking at?” he says, his voice slightly amused.

“You,” you say, blinking slowly. “I can’t help it. I love to watch you move.”

He laughs. “I feel like a shadow of a man,” he says teasingly. He looks right into your eyes. “It’s such lovely work, but I am worn out.”

“Come see me when you’re done,” you say, walking toward him and sliding your hands around his waist, pressing your face into the front of his shirt and inhaling deeply. “Mmm. Stage funk. I love it.”

He laughs. “It’s certainly a lot of sweat,” he says. He hugs you with one arm. “I’ll be up after I shower, darling.”

You smile and hike back up the stairs, leaping into the still-warm bed and snuggling, pulling the covers back to leave his spot open.

–

You wake to the feeling of his hand on your back. You sit up. “Ready?” you say, sleepily, reaching to the bedside table for an elastic to tie back your hair.

“No, darling, it’s all right,” he says. He settles back on the pillows, grunting, his movements stiff. “It’s quite late.”

“No,” you say, looking at him in the dim light. “I want to.”

He smiles, looking back at you. “If you insist,” he says.

“I do.”

He rolls over happily, the expanse of his back open before your hands. He stuffs the pillow carefully under his chin and wriggles as he settles into the mattress. You see a smile on his face, turned now to the side and resting on the pillow, his eyelashes thick and dark against his cheek.

You throw a leg over him, sitting lightly on the small of his back and working your thumbs into the tight flesh of his shoulders and middle back. He groans and moans so explicitly that it makes you giggle.

“I love your sex noises,” you tease.

“Oh, harder,” he calls out, giggling and drooling just a bit onto the pillow. You work your way slowly across his shoulders, pushing the tightness out from beneath both shoulder blades. “Hurt me, darling,” he says, his voice muffled in the pillow.

You squeeze a bit of muscle cream into your palms and warm it, then smooth it down both sides of his lower back. You run your thumbs together up the tight bands on either side of his spine. He twists and cries out.

“Too hard?”

“No, no,” he says, his voice pinched. “Just right.”

He ends with his head in your lap, blinking up at you for a moment before he drifts off as you trace the pressure points on his scalp and down his forehead, on either side of his nose, on the back of his neck, and on his chin. You poke your fingertips into his jaw muscles, loosening them as much as you can.

A sigh falls from his lips, and a light snore. You cover both of his eyes with your hands and lean over, kissing his lips lightly from above, and slide his head from your lap onto the pillow. You slip quietly downstairs, filling the kettle and pulling the tea tin close to his favorite mug with an upside down spoon beside it. You whip the cupboard door open and pull out the new tin of biscuits you found this morning, orange shortbread dipped in chocolate. It will please his sweet tooth as an early breakfast before brunch tomorrow. You walk through the house turning off stray lights here and there, and walk past his coat, hung in the entryway. You bury your nose in it, drinking in the scent of him: spicy, warm. Simple.

Back upstairs again you slide into bed in the dim light of the night and curl up next to him. He shifts and sighs and fits into you, pulling your arm around his waist as you both drift off, into that lovely soft space between night and morning.


End file.
